


The Adventure of the Missing Actress

by ColebaltBlue



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, The Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde
Genre: Case Fic, Crossover, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-05
Updated: 2013-11-05
Packaged: 2017-12-31 15:03:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1033086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColebaltBlue/pseuds/ColebaltBlue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Casefic set during the Hiatus and featuring characters from <i>The Picture of Dorian Gray</i>,  Wastson is appropriately competent, and a young woman isn't 'fridged.  After Watson meets Lord Henry Wotton and a young actress on the same day, she goes missing and in an effort to uncover why and how, Watson learns that Holmes can still manage to be as mysterious as ever, even in death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Adventure of the Missing Actress

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SherlockHolmes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlockHolmes/gifts).



> MANY thanks to Keerawa and BillieThePoet for the quick and extensive betas, for fixing my words and my plot, for talking through things with me and letting me know if something didn't work, or if it did. Thank you.

I always attempted to reserve some time in the afternoon to spend an hour in the garden taking tea with Mary. She seemed to brighten like our early spring daffodils in the sun despite her persistent dry winter cough. All too often that hour was busy spent on a housecall that took longer than expected or an emergency here and there, but I did try, when I could, to find myself the time to sit with her for that hour. Today I had succeeded in finding the time to be out on a beautiful, if rather cool, sunny afternoon. 

Mary was in the midst of a delightfully silly tale involving two friends who were currently upset with one another over of all things, wallpaper when the housekeeper approached.

"Begging your pardon, Doctor Watson, there is a young man here who insists on seeing you immediately, but he will not give his name, nor leave until he speaks with you."

I was puzzled for a moment, wondering why a young man would be so insistent upon coming to the house to see me. My housekeeper recognized most of my patients on sight, even though my attached practice had a separate entrance and she did not interact directly with them on a regular basis. She would have identified him to me if she could, and had him wait in the practice waiting room. And although I saw them rarely now and with decreasing frequency, Holmes's crew of rag-tag street children were known to drop in for me to heal their bumps and bruises. But they always arrived at the back servants' entrance, and their ill-fitting patched clothes identified them better than any uniform might.

I told her to let him know I'd be in shortly. I turned back to Mary to entreat her to finish the story before I dealt with the interruption, as it was near the end of my hour and I should be going anyway, but she was looking at me with her soft and understanding eyes. 

"It is quite alright, John, Ethel's wallpaper can keep until supper."

I smiled and stood and kissed her softly on the cheek before heading indoors to deal with my unexpected guest. 

The lad at the door was smartly dressed in what was quite clearly livery, starched and pressed and standing nearly at attention in my front hall. I approached him. 

"Lord Henry Wotton wishes to engage your services, sir. Immediately," he said, before I could open my mouth. I stopped, taken aback. Lord Henry Wotton was unfamiliar to me. I had seen his name in the society pages, and heard a story or two from Mary, but I had never met the man, nor had any reason to.

"Your medical services," the young man clarified, raising a neat eyebrow and nodding his head towards the door where I would no doubt find a carriage waiting to whisk me away to wherever it was Lord Henry Wotton was waiting. 

I heard Mary enter the hall behind me, having clearly followed me in. She placed a hand at the small of my back, pushing me forward. "Go on then, John, I will tell Parker you are out on a housecall and to mind the clinic for the afternoon."

I nodded, not comfortable with what I was being asked to do, nor the method it was being asked in, but unwilling to let someone suffer if they needed my help. I told the man to wait for me as I fetched my bag from the clinic. Once I had settled into the fine carriage and we set off for Wotton's London residence.

The carriage deposited me at the front of a fine townhouse. The door was opened smartly by a butler before I had even started to climb the steps. I was shown in and left waiting in the front hall. The beautiful paintings that hung on the walls caught my eye. Rather than the typical portraits of prominent ancestors and hunt scenes that featured the family's great country house in the distance one often found in the front halls of the rich and titled, I found delicate landscapes. 

I felt my chest tightening as I recognized the Swiss Alps, so clean and crisp and cool that I could feel the breeze brush across my cheek as surely as if I had been there. There was a scene of pedestrians standing on a bridge that looked as if it was simply a moment frozen in time and that the people would start walking again in merely a heartbeat. There was one with a vibrant splash of colors that reminded me of my brief time in the East. Another one was of a cluttered artist's loft, and another of the sun sinking behind the pyramids of Egypt. The work was exquisite. 

I was startled by the sound of a throat clearing behind me. I turned to find the butler standing in an open doorway. He gestured to an open door behind him and I walked through into a simple and tastefully decorated study. There was a young woman seated in a chair in front of the broad desk that dominated the back of the room. Her head was down and hands folded neatly in her lap, but her chin was set defiantly and I could see that echoed in the rest of her posture, still shoulders, straight back, and a stillness that spoke to an effort to not fidget rather than a relaxation. As I approached, I could make out her fine and delicate facial structure, but with a spray of freckles across her nose that spoke of a youth spent outdoors. Her hair perfectly arranged, but the brassy color of the blonde betrayed the fact that it was dyed and not natural. 

Seating myself in the chair from her I could see that the dress she wore was meant to look nice from afar, but a bit worn as if it were worn often and the materials were not of fine a quality as they had appeared at first. Given that she was with Lord Wotton in his study and there were no sign of a companion or chaperone about I supposed she was one of the many girls that came to London seeking their fame and fortune as actresses, but instead found steadier employment providing a sort of informal occasional companionship to men like Wotton. Audging from dust on the hem of her dress and the small purse tucked in her lap she was somewhat recently arrived and my business most likely concerned her..

I turned my attention to the man behind the desk. He was older than I expected from knowing what little I did of him - I had expected a younger man, in his late twenties or early thirties. That is not to say that the man seated across from me was ravaged by age, but he was much clearly closer to my own age rather than the young rake his exploits suggested and I revised my estimate of his age upwards, perhaps a bit older than myself. 

He was handsome, but only because the cut of his hair was perfect, his skin clean and cared for, his clothing of the finest quality, and his mannerisms refined. The man thought himself handsome and through sheer force of will made others think that as well. But there was something selfish in his looks, and a glint in his eye that told me I was being assessed for merely how I could serve him and no more and once that service was done I would be cast off and forgotten.

I remembered him a bit now. He was known in the society papers for the company he kept, the young aristocratic men he lorded over and ran about like a gang of boys and of the hopeful matrons fluttering about as good as selling their daughters to him in the hopes of being able to acquire yet another title for their family lines. There was hardly a kind word said about him, but nary a cruel one either. And I didn't judge him so despite his clearly uninterested affect. If he had been wouldn't have called a doctor.

I set my bag beside my chair and looked at my host expectantly.

"I apologize, Dr. Watson, for tearing you away from your client this afternoon. You will be well compensated for your house call today." He paused for a moment, perhaps to see if I had anything to say, but I had learned from my time with Holmes that sometimes, when you were uncertain of the situation, it was best to sit silently. People would often fill it with all the information you still lacked and you would reveal nothing in return. 

He continued, gesturing to the woman in front of me. "Miss Juliette Martin here requires some medical attention and I wish to engage your services on her behalf." I looked her over again. The blush in her cheeks seemed was the soft flush of high quality rouge and not the bright flush of fever. Her eyes were clear when they raised to meet mine, and a bit defiant. Her hair was thick and full. She displayed no outward sign of illness and had not coughed or sniffed once since I entered the room. 

"Miss Martin?" I asked, placing a French inflection on her name as he had done.

She looked at Lord Wotton who appeared a bit annoyed that I had chosen to address her and not just get on with what he had just politely ordered me to do.

"Doctor Watson," he said, "You come highly recommended via a mutual acquaintance and your discretion is noted. I am confident you will treat Juliette here and keep our appointment today brief private." He paused and stared at her, "As will she," he continued in a hard voice.

I turned to him, finding myself annoyed at his aristocratic attitude that clearly was used to getting what it wanted with no argument, but at the moment more surprised by the news that we seemed to have a mutual acquaintance. 

"I beg your pardon, Lord Wotton, but a mutual acquaintance? I was not aware we had any."

Now it was Lord Wotton's turn to appear surprised. 

"You lived with the man for eight years and he never once mentioned that he knew me? Interesting." Wotton's look grew guarded for a moment. "I trust that although he has left us, you would still respect Sherlock Holmes's confidences as much as ever, doctor. Do not give me reason to believe that my trust in you is misplaced."

I opened my mouth to object to the insult about my loyalty to Holmes, but found I couldn't say anything past the lump in my throat for I had spoken rarely of the man since his death. I swallowed, twice. And tried again. 

"Lord Wotton, Holmes was not only a colleague, but a dear friend as well. His confidences, even those he may have kept from me, will always be respected." 

Wotton nodded, but his eyes remained guarded. He seemed to be considering for a moment before he looked at Miss Martin, and then pressed his lips together. He inclined his head towards her.

"Miss Martinhas found herself in a condition that will soon make her unable to continue her work on stage. She has come to me, and I have come to you, to correct that condition so that she may continue gracing London with her considerable talents." His tone implied that he was quite done with being graced by those talents himself once this little inconvenience was taken care of.

It would explain her illness quite neatly, I thought to myself, and the need for a discreet doctor. I looked at her. What Wotton was proposing was not entirely unknown to me. Although I hated treating women in this condition, I had done so a time or two, occasionally for the sister or the mother of one of Holmes's Irregulars. And once or twice for a young lady contacted by Holmes to end the condition put upon her by a vile family member or acquaintance. I had never performed the procedure at the behest of a man and refused to start now.

"Thank you, Lord Wotton, if you would please direct me to a private area where I may discuss this with my patient I would appreciate it." 

"Here will not suit you?"

I glared at him. "Private, Lord Wotton."

His eyes hardened and he looked between Miss Martin and myself before he nodded and stood and rang for a maid who escorted us to a second floor bedroom. I shut the door behind us and took Miss Smith's elbow and led her over to the window, as far away from the door as possible to prevent curious ears from listening in.

She stepped back from me quickly and crossed her arms, her chin jutting out at me, but remained silent. I recognized her defensive posture and seated myself on a chair, looking up at her. 

"Miss Martin," I began. "While quite capable of performing the requested procedure, I am unwilling, and nor have I ever been will, to perform a medical exam or procedure on an unwilling patient. And you are my patient, not Lord Wotton. Perhaps you should tell me what you wish and we will go from there."

She relaxed slightly and gave me a considering look.

"Doctor Watson, is it?" She asked in a careful and cultured accent that was clearly the result of practice rather than nature. I suspected her name was as affected as her manners. "I came to Lord Wotton specifically because I knew he would find me someone safe and good to doctor me. I could have had some Whitechapel doctor see to my needs, but I have seen what those butchers do to girls and I don't wish to die of infection."

"And he agreed?" I was skeptical. The man did not strike me as the kind of person who would agree to anything unless it benefited him in some way.

She shrugged, "He is not what I would call a kind man, doctor, but nor is he cruel. He has a conscience as it suits him and pointing out that helping me would not greatly inconvience him and it might very well save my life seemed to convince him."

I wondered instead if perhaps she reminded him of someone, and that this small favor was a sort of atonement for some past transgression - perhaps a time when his actions had caused the death of an actress and by saving Juliette Martin's life, he making up for having not saved another.

"The procedure is dangerous, Miss Martin, no matter who performs it, but no more dangerous than childbirth when done by someone trained and in a sterile environment. I will use clean instruments and not leave you in pain, but I cannot guarantee your life or that you will ever bear children again."

Her chin raised again. "You are a safer bet."

I allowed myself a small smile and nodded at her. "As long as this is your choice, Miss Martin, and not a condition to remain in Lord Wotton's, or anyone else's, favor."

She snorted at me, a gesture that spoke of the stubborn country girl that came to London to make her fortune. I knew then she was telling the truth. I stood up and gestured to the bed. 

"I will need to fetch some things. You should take off all your clothing save your shift and make yourself comfortable."

I left her in the room to gather up my bag from down stairs, and to ask a maid for a few supplies in the form of clean sheets and hot water. I insisted on a dressing gown for her and one was fetched. Finally, as a condition of my services I told Lord Wotton that Miss Martin was to be allowed to stay at the house for an additional day or two to recover. He agreed reluctantly, clearly eager to be done with the business, and told me he was going to be out for the rest of the afternoon, but that my payment would be left with his valet who would see me home.

The deed was done a short while later and I left a maid with instructions on how to care for Miss Martin and I headed home in the fading light of the spring afternoon with the same man who had shown me to Lord Wotton's in the first place, well compensated for my services.

* * *

A week later I once again found myself out in the back garden with Mary enjoying a light tea during my afternoon break from my clinic. This time we were both absorbed in the afternoon newspaper and my attention was caught by Mary's soft and sad sigh.

"What is it, my dear?"

She shook her head and closed the paper, "Oh, yet another case of a young woman disappearing. It troubles me, John, the way women can so easily find themselves preyed upon by men with no recourse."

I nodded and continued reading, but Mary was apparently not done yet.

"Women have so few choices, depending on the the good will of their family or employers. Women who are not born into stability have little hope of achieving it later in life. They can only hope that the choices they make do not result in their death."

I set the paper down. 

"Their death? Mary, while women may suffer occasionally at the hands of men, you must surely agree that such treatment leading to death is rare in a place like England."

Mary at me with a mixture of pity and exasperation. 

"Take this young woman for example, John, " she said, stabbing a finger at the paper. "She was an actress who no doubt had to supplement her income entertaining men. Women should not have to turn to such things to provide for themselves. For not every woman is lucky enough to have a family to provide for her, or to meet a good man to be her husband. And we are so quick to blame them for their circumstances and no one ever cares to ask them why. We just flutter our handkerchiefs and tsk at yet another woman likely dead through no fault of her own." Mary took a breath, and then another one with her hand pressed to her chest before coughing a few times.

I furrowed my brow and reached for the paper, more concerned as to what had my wife so upset. Scanning the print I saw a short story written in sensational prose about the woman she must have been referring to, a promising young actress who had disappeared under mysterious circumstances, Honore Smith, but perhaps better known by her stage name of Juliette Martin.

"Mary! Do you know this woman?" I asked, startled as to why my wife would single her outof all stories in the page about crimes and the suffering of the less fortunate that the London papers published more to sell copies than to report the news.

"No," she said, surprised by my outburst.

"If you'll excuse me, my dear, I have an urgent appointment," I said, getting up quickly and taking the paper with me, leaving her behind in confused silence. I shrugged into my coat in the front hall before dashing out of the house and hailing a cab towards Lord Henry Wotton's London home. 

The butler clearly recognized me once the door was opened to my ringing of the bell but he was far less solicitous as the day before. I asked if Lord Wotton was home and received a terse and annoyed reply that he was not to announced visitors. Before I could hardly think about it, I had opened my mouth and was demanding to see the man who had engaged my services just days before, with the firm but unspoken implication that my arrival here today was related and urgent. I could hardly believe my bravado and struggled to keep the haughty expression on my face for fear that the butler would see right through me. I was given a cold command to wait in the hall once again as he disappeared toward the study. After a few moments, I was admitted, quite reluctantly I could tell, to Wotton's presence.

"I thought our business had concluded, Doctor Watson," he said.

"I thought so too, Lord Wotton, but I was troubled to learn, of Honore Smith's disappearance."

Lord Wotton looked at me, puzzled.

"Juliette Martin," I clarified.

He looked out the window, clearly annoyed, but pressed his lips together and looked back at me with an expression that almost looked tired.

"I hardly see how this concerns me, Doctor Watson. And not that it does you, but I last saw Juliette days ago. What occurred after she left my house has nothing to do with me, nor do I care." He was blunt and condescending. It was clear that his business with Juliette Martin, or rather Miss Honore Smith had concluded and he wished to forget her and have nothing more to do with her again. She was a play thing and had served her purpose and was to be discarded as I suspected Lord Wotton discarded all his play things, by ignoring them and moving on quickly to the next thing that caught his attention. I doubted he'd ever think of her again if he didn't have it.

I was startled though, despite this observation. The man had engaged my services for a delicate operation that most men like him wouldn't have bothered to provide. 

"I had hoped that engaging your services would not prove to be a mistake, Doctor Watson, please do not prove me wrong."

He looked down at the papers on his desk and I could tell I had been dismissed. I left the study and gathered my coat before stepping out. I hadn't decided on what exactly it was I planned on doing until I found myself giving the cab I hailed instructions to drop me at New Scotland Yard. I had no business investigating Miss Smith's wherabouts and I had thought the man who would dash off at the first hint of a mystery dead and buried along with Holmes. I was a doctor now, with a respectable practice and a beautiful wife and soon, I hoped, a growing family. By the time the cab had stopped I was no clearer than I was when I had given the driver my directions, but I found myself facing the doors of New Scotland Yard and thought to myself that I was halfway there already, might as well see it through until the end. Besides, I thought, Holmes would have never let a mystery just be.

It had been at least two years since I had visited Lestrade, and during that time the police had relocated from their Scotland Yard headquarters on Whitehall to New Scotland Yard. I had never been to his new office, but after asking a few young constables for directions, I was waived towards his office by a familiar looking desk sergeant who seemed to recognize me as well. 

"Doctor Watson!" he exclaimed as I stepped through his doorway unannounced. "I haven't seen you 'round these parts since you became a respectable doctor. I do hope all is well with your wife and that your visit here is pleasure, not business." The affable and friendly inspector gestured to a seat in front of his desk I sat folding my coat into my lap. He called for tea before settling into his chair and smiling at me. 

I realized I had missed Lestrade. He had been to dinner a time or two after I had married Mary and set up my practice in Kensington, but after seeing him at Holmes's funeral I hadn't had him over since. I had thrown myself into my work after Holmes had died at that waterfall in Switzerland and had assiduously avoided anything that had reminded me of Sherlock Holmes, including Lestrade. 

"Mary is quite well, thank you for asking, we really must have you round again. Perhaps Thursday, next?"

"I would be delighted!" Lestrade exclaimed before looking at me critically. "Doctor Watson, I have a hard time believing that you would pop by the Yard for an unannounced social call in order to invite me to dinner. What is troubling you?"

I smiled. For all Holmes's grumblings about Lestrade's skill as a detective inspector, we both acknowledged that the rat-faced little man was actually a keen observer with a sharp mind. 

"There is a little matter," I paused, unsure of how to go on.

Lestrade smiled at me and prompted, "that you found yourself investigating, sir?"

"Well, perhaps not investigating, but rather I am seeking some answers, an answer, and I was hoping you could help."

Lestrade sat back and folded his hands over his stomach. I noticed that in the two years since I had last seen him he had a few more gray hairs in his moustache, a few less hairs on his head, and the soft stomach of an aging man. I thought ruefully of my own belly expanding since I had met Mary and partaken in regular meals. For a moment I thought of Holmes's lean physique, the product of a varied fitness routine as unique as the man himself and his abominable habit of forgetting to eat. Every day it hurt a little less to think of him and I smiled a melancholy smile at Lestrade.

"Honore Smith, but perhaps better known by her stage name Juliette Martin" I continued, "an up and coming actress on the London stage, but recently disappeared."

Lestrade sat up and considered me, "I am familiar with the case, but I am not quite sure why you are Doctor Watson. Did you know the young lady?" Lestrade's voice was curious, perhaps a bit concerned, and carried no judgement, but it was quite clear he was very curious as to why I was asking about Miss Smith. 

I had no interest in revealing to Lestrade the true manner in which I had met the young lady, yet I could not countenance his assumption that I should take advantage of a young woman in such a way. I considered for a moment, wondering what version of the truth was the best. Lord Wotton was far from blameless in Miss Smith's situation and I hoped that like always, Lestrade would be the fair-minded detective I knew him to be and concern himself only with the facts as they were relevant to the case.

"I have only met the young lady once, but we had, have, a mutual acquaintance." I winced; giving too little information to Lestrade often set him off like a dog on a scent.

"And why, pray tell, Doctor Watson are you here darkening my doorway and not your mutual acquaintance?"

I sighed. "Given the circumstances of the situation, Lestrade, it is both a bit delicate and makes me suspicious that Miss Smith's disappearance may be foul play."

Lestrade waited. 

"I met her through Lord Henry Wotton. I am concerned for her."

Lestrade sat up quickly at the mention of Wotton's name and leaned forward.

"Lord Wotton. Surely, Watson, you are not mixed up in that crowd are you?"

I sat back, unsure if I should be offended, but mostly I was puzzled. "Lestrade, I must confess I have no idea what you are talking about. I have only met Lord Wotton once myself, on the same occasion that I met Miss Smith."

Lestrade looked at me with his small piercing eyes. "Understand, Doctor Watson that it is only our long association, and friendship, I hope, that is preventing me from placing you on the suspect list after this information."

I was shocked. "But-"

Lestrade held up a hand to halt my protestations. "I have reason to believe Miss Smith's disappearance is the result of murder, doctor. Her room was ransacked and blood was found. This new information, that she was known to Lord Wotton, merely confirms my suspicions that Miss Smith's profession was not strictly stage acting."

"Lestrade, you don't think Lord Wotton had anything to do with her disappearance, do you? When I spoke to him he seemed disinterested at best, hardly guilty."

"Spoke to him, doctor?" 

I muttered an oath under my breath. I was out of practice and scattered. I had been out of the game too long and I was lost without Holmes by my side, even with a friend like Lestrade. Holmes had impressed upon me the importance of never revealing information that a subject didn't already have during an interview, even when that subject was an ally, until absolutely necessary. 

"I called on Lord Wotton after reading about the young woman's disappearance this afternoon and came straight here after."

"No. I do not think Lord Wotton had anything directly to do with her disappearance. Do you truly not know the man, Watson? I would have thought that you would have through your long association with Mr. Holmes. They were friends, or at least more than nodding acquaintances, at one point. And I know that they did have friends in common."

I was shocked. I had only just learned, from the man himself, that Lord Wotton knew Sherlock Holmes, but here I was learning that Lestrade had known as well. After living with Holmes for years I thought I had known most of the man's friends, if not a majority of his secrets as well. And now I was beginning to suspect there was a side to my dearest friend that was kept well hidden. 

"I must confess, Lestrade, that I had no idea of the friendship you are speaking of," I said. I was uncomfortable letting the conversation focus on Holmes and the fact that I seemed to be in the process of discovering that perhaps I knew the man less well than I had thought. 

I attempted to bring the subject back to Miss Smith. "Directly? So you believe Wotton may have been involved somehow."

"This is not the first time Lord Wotton's name has come up in conjunction with a disappearance, but the man never is directly involved. And not just with such severe crimes. He is friends with plenty of unsavory people, yet always seems to be uninvolved himself in whatever those people are up to." 

Lestrade paused, seeming to consider something, before he went on with a cautious note in his voice, "Watson, I can't help but consider that Mr. Holmes's obfuscation of his relationship with Lord Wotton and their mutual acquaintances was perhaps deliberate."

"Perhaps he had ended his association with him before we became acquainted and it never came up?"

Lestrade shook his head, "No, Holmes had dealings with them after you had taken digs together, I do know that for a fact. Doctor Watson, I would caution you against pursuing this. I had assumed you knew of Wotton and his types previously. As it appears you don't, then I can't help but be concerned that by investigating you may uncover far more information that you were never intended to know."

I was unsure if I should be offended or not. But it was curious, Lestrade defending Holmes to me and I don't think that ever in our long acquaintance such a thing had occurred. Initially, I had defended Holmes to Lestrade before I realized that part of what they both enjoyed about their relationship was its adversarial nature. Later in our relationship, I had simply sat back enjoyed their sparring the way someone might take in a boxing match. 

Holmes had been incredibly reticent about his life prior to our association, and I did my best to respect that, but during my time as his biographer, I thought I had relatively unencumbered access to his life and the cases that it revolved around. The thought that Holmes had secrets was not shocking to me, but I was finding it hard to accept that he may have actively sought to conceal friends and events from me that occurred during our long friendship.

"Lestrade, as I am sure you are well aware, Holmes was someone who meant a great deal to me. He, in a way, saved my life from the slow death that Afghanistan was inflicting upon it. I lived with the man and all his strangeness for the better part of a decade. I was his only companion in the days before his death. I hardly think that there is anything I could learn about the man now, no matter how close-kept the secret, that could alter my esteem of him."

I swallowed hard against the lump in my throat. My speech was perhaps the longest one I had made concerning Holmes since his death. His brother had delivered his short and succinct eulogy and I had not been able to bring myself to do much more than murmur thanks to the condolences that had been offered at his funeral. Even Mary had been incapable of pulling more than a few words at a time about Holmes from me. I glared at Lestrade, blinking hard to prevent my eyes from tearing. 

Lestrade sighed and then nodded, he wrote something on a slip of paper and passed it to me. 

"Her address," he said. I looked down and saw in his neat handwriting the address located not too far from London's theater district. "It was a shared flat of sorts, someone there will show you her room. It had only been paid for through the end of the week. If you want to see it, you'll have to do so quickly."

I stood and gathered my coat before offering Lestrade my hand and reiterating my invitation to dinner. He agreed and again cautioned me against poking my nose into Holmes's business. I thanked him and headed out to catch a cab to Juliette Martin nee Honore Smith's residence.

* * *

It took me a few minutes to convince Miss Smith's friends to let me into her room. Identifying myself and stating that I had come from Scotland Yard did not convince them, nor did mentioning Lord Wotton's name. Apparently reporters had been here already and had tried both tactics before. It wasn't until one girl piped up from the back of the growing crowd that Miss Smith had mentioned my name as the doctor that took care of her problem that the girls all nodded and let me into the room. 

"Honore said you were kind to her," they said by way of explanation. Altruistic kindness was a rare commodity in the lives of these women, apparently. I thanked them and requested that a few help me determine if anything was out of place. With their help we found a broken jar under the bed, identified by one young lady as "Her favorite perfume, a gift from an admirer." The absence of any money indicating that Miss Smith had been robbed of all her savings, including the coins and bills in her secret hiding places. A few items of clothing and other practical items were also gone, but her satchel was still sitting on the floor of the room's wardrobe. There were other items out of place. Her vanity had been swept clean, and the bedclothes were torn from the mattress to reveal a blood-stained mattress. 

I asked the girls about Miss Smith's health and the assured me she was quite well and, even after my surgery, she was fine with no complaints at all. None of them had heard anything amiss, but said that Miss Smith had gone missing in the late afternoon, after most of the girls had left to prepare for their evening engagements and it was possible no one had heard the struggle that had obviously occurred in the room. 

I looked around myself and took notes in my notebook. The money was missing, but other small items that could have been easily hawked in the second-hand shops or on the street were there, including a second nearly full bottle of scent lying abandoned against the wall. I knew that it was not an inexpensive bottle having purchased the very kind once for Mary as a gift. And although her jewelry was clearly paste, even costume jewelry could fetch a price on the street for someone who cared enough to raid the meager savings of a struggling actress and part time escort. 

Curiously, I also noticed that although the mattress was stained, the bed clothes were not, indicating the blood had been spilled after the sheets pulled back. The blood had pooled evenly before it soaked in, and there was no spray pattern or drops to be found anywhere else, just a symmetrical patch of tacky, mostly dried blood on the mattress. I estimated that no more than two cups of blood had been lost, and the stain was too high on the mattress to be the result of post-surgical bleeding. 

There were a few books missing from the stack next to her bed. I could tell because the tea cup that had surely sat on top of the stack was moved and a few books were aligned as if someone had lifted them off, and then put them back to remove a book from the center of the pile of novels. 

"Miss Smith enjoyed reading?" I asked.

"Oh yes," chorused a few of the girls. Domestic novels and the magazines. She saved for those and spent most of her money on them. Interestingly enough she was missing three issues of _The Strand_ from last year, but had both the preceding and succeeding issues. Aside from the scattered belongings, an overturned chair, the violence done to the bed clothes, a few smashed items, the broken mirror over the vanity and the pool of blood, there was little real indication that a struggle had occurred. A young woman such as Miss Smith being taken against her will would have done far more damage if she had been struggling. 

The absence of blood anywhere else in the room puzzled me and the pool didn't speak of any sort of violence. If she had the sort of wound that would leave behind a blood stain like that, she would have either bled quickly and voluminously, leaving a trail as she left, or she would have had to be lying there a long time and have suffered from some sort of blood disorder that prevented it from clotting. 

I was beginning to believe that we wouldn't find Miss Smith's dead body, but rather her healthy, unwounded, and quite alive one - that is if she wished to be found., Based on the condition of the room and the missing items, I highly doubted she wanted to be found nor had any intention of returning.

I left the flat and wired Lestrade from the corner telegraph office my suspicions about Miss Smith's disappearance and before setting off for Baker Street. I had not been to my former flat since just before my wedding. Holmes and I had remained friends after I moved to Kensington with my new wife, but our friendship had changed. It was hard for him to wake me by looming over my bed at night shaking me with his cold thin fingers and talking a mile a minute about whatever case solution had come to him in the middle of the night when I was at home with my wife. My days were soon occupied by working the practice I had purchased and setting up house and spending time with Mary and no longer with sleuthing and therefore no longer with Holmes himself. It had shocked me when I realized at his funeral that I had not been back since I had left to become a married man, but by then it was too painful to return and I wished only to remember as I did, with Holmes occupying his usual perch in his chair, ruminating over a three pipe problem. 

It was with a sense of sweet sorrow that I mounted the steps and rang the bell at my former home. Mrs. Hudson was exclaimed repeatedly how delighted she was to see me as she ushered me into her sitting room and got me seated into a chair with a cup of tea into my hand. I spent a good quarter of an hour updating her on my married life and inviting her 'round to dinner as soon as we could both manage it. We said the usual things between friends who had not seen each other for awhile. It wasn't long, though, before she asked me if I was here to collect things from upstairs.

I was surprised. I had intended to merely ask if she had happened to know where Holmes's things had ended up. With his brother was my assumption, but I felt more comfortable calling on Mrs. Hudson unexpectedly than Mycroft Holmes as I had never been to his home, and only to meet him at his club a few times and only in the company of his brother. 

"Upstairs? You mean to say Holmes's things are still up there, these two years later."

Mrs. Hudson looked at me with surprise, "Why yes, of course, Doctor Watson, I would have thought you'd known. His brother maintains the flat just as it was and is a much better tenant and much more prompt with the rent than Holmes ever was. Everything is just as it was the day you two left for the continent."

"Well, then, yes, if it isn't too much trouble, Mrs. Hudson, I had hoped to take a peek at Holmes's journals."

"Doing a bit of sleuthing, Doctor? I had thought you were done with those days." Her voice was gentle and teasing but it still stung. My life was so different now.

"I wouldn't call it sleuthing, Mrs. Hudson, I leave that to Holmes, but I am looking into the disappearance of a young woman."

Mrs. Hudson gave me a small sad smile and I thought of what I just said.

"Left. I never had the gift he did," I whispered, staring at my hands.

Mrs. Hudson took a deep breath and said firmly, "Doctor Watson, you were always as keen to solve a mystery as Holmes, himself." She stood abruptly and headed for the stairs. I followed her, a bit puzzled.

She let me into the room and left me there dumbstruck in the doorway. The room was as I remembered it, Persian slipper and all. It was as if I stepped back in time. I half expected Holmes to come thundering up our seventeen steps behind me as if he had just been delayed by paying the cab driver. It even still smelled like him. I stepped cautiously into the room, wondering for just a second if it was an illusion that would shatter around me and disappear in a wisp of smoke. 

Although it was as cluttered as ever, the room was remarkably clean and I had to wonder if Mrs. Hudson had been up here, keeping the dust under control. I didn't smell any moldering experiments so surely someone had cleaned out anything that might rot at some point in the last two years. The curtains were drawn back, letting plenty of late afternoon light into the sitting room. 

I made my way over cautiously to Holmes's desk. It was cluttered as ever, but I didn't recognize anything immediately. I wouldn't, I realized, because I had not lived at Baker Street the year before he died, instead I was across town in Kensington minding my practice. I did see a clipping affixed to the side of the desk with a ladies hat pin, just a few words about my practice published The Sun. Under it was pinned a picture that had found its way into The Illustrated London News from our last case together. The photographer had caught us when we were leaving a crime scene with Lestrade who had called us both in to investigate because of the unusual nature of the crime, a body found half dissolved in a bathtub of acid. It had not taken Holmes long to determine the exact type of acid used,, the chemist that provided it, and the likely identity of the murderer and we had left after being there only a short while. 

Unfortunately the photographers from the newspapers had been doing their jobs, as it were, and had already arrived to wheedle, lie, and sneak their way in before we had a chance to leave and one of them had caught us on the way out. Much to his annoyance, Holmes's name had been splashed across the headlines the next day and this very same photo was in the next edition of The Illustrated London News.

I smiled at the fact that he had kept a photo of the two of us, although his face was partially obscured, right here on his desk. My moment of reminiscence over, I turned to one of the many book shelves that lined the wall. I searched for a few minutes before I located his index on _People, Alphabetical_ and a few minutes longer before I located the W's, which I found halfway down a rather precariously balanced stack underneath a chair which in turn had been balanced on upturned teacups. I shook my head and dug it out.

Lord Henry Wotton's entry was remarkably public for a man that Sherlock Holmes was purported to know privately. Like most entries, it stated the basic biographical information of his name, circumstances of birth, parents, education, and a few points of interest in his life. The only thing that appeared to be an addition based on personal knowledge was two notes in Holmes's short hand that took me a moment to translate to 'never says a moral thing and never does a wrong thing,' and 'his cynicism is simply a pose.' Perhaps Lestrade was correct in his assumption that Wotton wasn't involved in the young woman's disappearance. 

However, I was more curious about the list of known associates to be found at the end of the entry. I scanned through them quickly, but nothing stood out in particular. I read through it again, eliminating the names of his peers which I recognized or individuals I had met. I surmised that if I had never known of his association with Holmes, it was unlikely that I had met anyone else that seemed to belong to that particular circle of friends. Only two names from the admittedly short list stood out - Alan Campbell and Basil Hallward. Both with notations clearly made at a date later than the original entry marking Campbell as deceased and Hallward as disappeared. Most surprising was that the disappeared notation was crossed out and deceased written beside it. 

It took a bit more time to locate the C and H indices. The former was found in a violin case that didn't hold a violin, but rather bottles of chemicals, and the latter inside a leather folio in which a few miniatures had been tucked inside. I looked up Basil Hallward first. The man was a painter, "of uncommon talent" Holmes had written and I wondered if the paintings in Wotton's entry hall were his. Curious to display those instead of family heirlooms in the entry hall meant to impress and intimidate visitors. There were no clues about the manner of Hallward's death, and only a handful of known associates, Wotton, Campbell, and Dorian Gray. The name was familiar to me, but only because it marked one of the first times that Holmes disappeared for a few days with no clue as to his whereabouts. I had arrived home one evening after an afternoon spent playing cards in my club to find Holmes escorting a well-dressed young dandy out the door. 

"The work of Dorian Gray, no doubt," Holmes had muttered, mostly to himself, before he had disappeared into his room. He emerged a few moments later, leather case in hand and his summer coat thrown over his arm. I thought it odd at the time and had committed the name to memory the next evening when Holmes still had not returned home. I had wanted some clue to give Lestrade should I have to declare Holmes a missing person. I was relieved to receive a telegraph the next day, unsigned, but clearly from Holmes saying, 'water the lily.' I had spotted the lily on the window sill in his room and had dutifully watered it. I had tried to ask him when he had finally returned home a few days later, but he had brushed me off saying I was lucky not to know the man and had said no more.

I looked at the entry on Alan Campbell and this one struck me as a bit more personal than the others. There was the usual biographical information, but that in itself was unusual for a man that did not seem to be connected to anyone other than Basil Hallward, and presumably Sherlock Holmes. And it was odd to find biographical information at all on a chemist, especially one that did not appear to be in any way remarkable at all. There were no citations of monographs, or award, honors or recognitions. He was not a cousin of an earl nor did he appear to be tied in any way to someone in government. All-in-all he appeared to be a nobody based on his entry in the indices. 

Through my long association with Holmes though, I had learned that if something struck one as odd, it most certainly was. I sat down in his chair and caught a whiff of his tobacco smoke and smiled to myself. I did not smoke his pipes, but it was almost as if he was there puffing away encouraging me to apply his methods and reach a conclusion myself. No doubt the wrong one, but not that far off the right one either. 

I looked around the cluttered sitting room, with piles of box and manuscripts, indices and folios scattered about. This was the true record of our time together, here contained in all this paper. I wrote heavily altered versions for The Strand and had made the man famous, but this was where Sherlock Holmes really lived on, in the incredibly detail of his case notes and cross referenced indices that contained an immeasurable amount of information about the great and mundane of all London, and perhaps the world beyond. On the footstool in front of his chair I found a book on the Norwegian language, another on the Pyramids of Egypt, and what appeared to be an original journal written by a traveler who had once found his way into a forbidden city in Arabia. I set them back down with a snort.

I knew where I could find the information I sought on Campbell, but I was reluctant to make both the physical and metaphorical move into Holmes's private abode - his room. He would let himself into mine on the floor above whenever it suited his fancy, but there had always been a barrier to his room and although he never said it, I knew that while I wouldn't be thrown out if I went in there, neither would I be welcomed either. I had already been in 221B for an hour and knew that if I had any hope of making it home in time to have dinner with Mary I need to make a decision soon.

Finally, I stood and made my way over. The man was dead. Dead and had left me screaming his name into a ravine until I was hoarse. What did he care anymore if I went into his room? Under his bed, Holmes kept a trunk of his private notebooks. I had seen them a time or two when he had dragged them out to consult for a case. I knew that they contained scribblings of his chemistry analysis, notes on what he would eventually compile into a monograph, the details of cases he worked alone for anonymous clients, and a time or two I had caught him scribbling madly away in them huddled in his chair in front of a long dead fire, fingers nearly ice, fueled by a seven-percent solution injected into his veins. 

I had never seen the inside of these notebooks, but hoped they would have some sort of organization. I was pleased to see that they followed the same conventions as his other indices and was quickly able to collect a few of which I hoped contained more information about Alan Campbell.

I stopped in to see Mrs. Hudson before I left, reiterating my invitation for dinner sometime soon and letting her know I was done upstairs and borrowing a few things, but that I would return them when I was done, before I headed out the front door to catch a cab back home.

* * *

That night I settled in to a chair at the table across from Mary in our small private living room below stairs and spread the books out along with a fresh notebook of my own. She had some mending to do herself and we both found the warm room more comfortable in these chilly evenings. Because of Mary's lingering cough I insisted we had keep to the warmer and less formal room downstairs far later in the year than was usual.

I had explained my day to her over dinner. She had smiled, nodded, asked insightful questions, and agreed wholeheartedly that she simply would love to see both Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson again soon and promised to extend formal invitations to them more regularly. 

Now we sat in companionable silence as I delved into Holmes's journals. I found notations next to chemical equations marking them as "Alan's" work, a note about a visit to Liverpool the two must have taken together, and another one to Wales. Next to a chemical equation I found a note that said, 'invisible ink?' and below that 'M. v. impressed' and wondered if Holmes was referring to his brother. It was clear that Holmes and Campbell had collaborated together on chemical work, and frequently, it appeared, during his years between University and meeting me. 

Campbell also appeared to have had his work shown to Mycroft if the man hadn't been introduced himself. The 'Alan' notations were most curious. In all our years together, Holmes rarely had referred to me as John, and although I found my name peppered here and there in the journals it was always as 'Watson'. I concluded that Campbell had been a close friend of Holmes's.

Finally I found an entry regarding his death. It was made only a few years ago and I remembered, based on the date, and the mad scribbling it was written in that it had clearly occurred during one of Holmes's black moods. I read the entry and was struck by the intimacy of it. Campbell had come to see Holmes and request his help over something to do with Basil Hallward. I had no idea of the specifics since Holmes did not elaborate. I gathered from the writing that Holmes had offered Campbell no more than friendship and had seemed upset by what Campbell had told him. When I turned the page I found a note tucked in there and opened it curiously. It was from Campbell and I read that he was sorry that Holmes would be unable to reveal the true circumstances of Hallward's death without bringing great damage to himself, but that he could no longer live with it and that Dorian Gray had won. 

I was surprised for it seemed to imply the man had killed himself because he had been involved in Hallward's death at the behest of Dorian Gray. I quickly scanned the page and what I saw made me gasp aloud in shock. Mary had taken herself to bed quite some time ago otherwise I don't doubt that she would've enquired as to exactly what had troubled me and there was no way I would have ever been able to tell her. 

Dorian Gray had threatened Alan Campbell with blackmail. And it was clear as day written in Holmes's notes exactly what that blackmail was - he had threatened to reveal that Campbell was a practicing homosexual and that Sherlock Holmes had been his lover at one time. _'I can't help but wonder if Alan was protecting me as much as he was atoning for Basil's death,'_ Holmes had written. _'I am forever indebted to him - if only for John's sake and not my own.'_

I sat there stunned for some minutes, staring at the irrefutable proof on the page in front of me. The man I had lived with for eight years had indeed kept a secret from me, and quite well at that. He had always been a queer man, but I had believed his solicitous distance from the fairer sex to be about his devotion to his work and his faint hint of distaste when I spoke of Mary before our marriage to be about me leaving Baker Street behind, not an actual aversion to women. 

I wondered how many other people had known of Holmes's proclivities. I had never seen anyone I would have called his friend at our flat, but he did disappear for days at a time and I knew he kept rooms in other areas of town to allow him to work his cases continuously in disguise. I couldn't help but wonder if perhaps they had served other purposes as well. The man had never expressed any desire for or sought more than companionship from me, and of that I was sure. I had been in the Army, and at school before that, and had, at times, been the object of such interest. And such things often amused rather than angered me, although I could never understand why men would indulge themselves with other men when women were available and always turned down such invitations firmly but clearly. 

My own brother had been destroyed by his inability to love woman and his attempt had destroyed his wife and children as well. He had always had to use alcohol to bring himself to touch his wife and before long, he had to use it continuously to cope with the fact that he had a wife and didn't want one. Although I in no way approved of the blatant way some men conducted themselves, and I strongly disapproved of the way Wilde had carried on so publicly with men making a mockery of it all, losing a brother to it had at least made me realized that some men were homosexuals against their own wills and desires not to be. I just never had suspected that Holmes was also so accursed. However, he had certainly conducted his affairs so privately that I could not bring myself to find any fault in it if that truly was his nature.

I gathered up all the notebooks and rushed them into my study, locking them in a drawer and pocketing the key. I had no wish for anyone else to find out and knew that I would protect this secret of Holmes's that I was never meant to have with my life and reputation if need be, and not for my sake, but for his memory.

The next morning, as I was greeting my first patient, one of Holmes's old Irregulars appeared on my doorstep with a note in hand. I had greeted Joseph by name, surprised to see him washed up and dressed respectably, but still just as small as ever. A lack of early nutrition often left these boys small throughout their entire lives. He had been one of our smarter ones, although they were all clever, and Holmes had taught him to read before sending him off to a boys school to learn to be a clerk. For some of the more talented boys, Holmes would finance a respectable education and assist them in finding an apprenticeship. 

I opened the note and found summons inside, to the Diogenes Club, for lunch today, signed by Mycroft Holmes. I quickly scribbled my acceptance and handed it back to Joseph, who left immediately to deliver it. I saw my patients in a sort of daze that day, brought on by a lack of sleep since I had tossed and turned all night wondering about Holmes and Campbell and how I had stumbled across this information and had been so distracted while trying to find out what happened to Honore Smith. 

I finally left in barely enough time to get me to the club. I was shown in and seated across from the great bulk of Mycroft Holmes. 

"I do hope you won't mind, Doctor, if we take only a moment for polite pleasantries, before we discuss why I called you hear today?"

I nodded, a bit off balance. Did Mycroft Holmes know about his brother? Surely he must if he had the greatest deductive mind in all of England, according to Sherlock Holmes himself.

"Excellent. I hope your wife is well, and your practice appears to be thriving. I am glad to see you renewing the friendships that were sadly abandoned after my brother died. And speaking of those friendships, I am curious as to why you visited my brother's flat yesterday."

I had long ago learned that while perfectly capable of following the rules of society, the Holmes brothers only did so when it was necessary, otherwise they both believed quite fervently in "getting to the point" as Holmes liked to say.

"I was hoping to find some information in his notes about someone I recently met and discovered had been a friend of his."

"Lord Henry Wotton, Harry to his friends, the numbers of which seem to be dwindling. I find it curious he hired you, but perhaps the man is finally finding a conscious after all this time."

"Yes, I suppose." Our soup was served and we both took a moment to eat. It was clear that the elder Holmes appreciated his meals, and I appreciated the moment of silence that allowed me to attempt to get back on an even keel.

"I very much doubt you'll find the answers to Miss Smith's disappearance amongst Lord Wotton's friends. It has nothing to do with them, or with you, or with Wotton himself."

"You are aware of the circumstances involving her disappearance?" I asked, surprised.

Mycroft waved his hand as our next course was set in front of us. "Only in passing. One of her," he paused, "benefactors was a minor government official. I do like to be aware of what is going on with my colleagues if it could potentially affect my ability to do my job."

Holmes had managed to consume half his plate in what felt like mere moments. 

"In fact, if you are interested in the circumstances of her disappearance, I suggest you make it to Waterloo for the evening train to Portsmouth. I believe you'll find your answer boarding in second class."

"She's alive?"

Holmes looked at me with a bit of consternation. "Surely you deduced that for yourself, Watson. The young lady is bound for France, Paris specifically, to try her luck. She'll need it to make up for her lack of talent."

"But-" 

Holmes sighed impatiently as he cut the last of his meat.

"Doctor. My brother thought very highly of your skills and I am sure that you are perfectly capable of figuring out for yourself the details given enough time, but for the sake of expediency here I shall explain. As you are well aware, Miss Smith found herself more adept at her secondary career, to the point where it was becoming her primary. After finding herself facing the consequences of those choices and knowing that her clients would not pay to see her on stage if they weren't seeing her back stage as well, she concluded that she would need to start over, in Paris."

"Why Pairs?"

"Her mother was French, Honore Martin Smith, speaks passable French and I believe she hopes her French relatives will provide some support if needed. She will be disappointed in that respect of her plan, but she will find that the line between her two professions is less clear in Paris and that her talents may yet make her a star."

I shook my head and stared down at my half full plate. I set my fork and knife down and let the waiter clear it. We didn't speak until dessert and coffee were before us.

"I did not ask you here to speak of Miss Smith, Doctor Watson, but rather I wished to speak to you about my brother. I suspect you may have discovered something last night in the items you took from Baker Street you might find troubling."

I sat, considering, as Mycroft Holmes stared at me from across the table. 

"I did discover that Holmes was…" I searched for a word that would carry my double meaning well, "close, with a man named Alan Campbell, and that through him may have been involved with the deaths of Basil Hallward and Dorian Gray, two friends of Lord Wotton."

Mycroft Holmes sat back and folded his hands across his large belly, the food in front of him ignored for the first time since we sat down.

"Since you accepted my invitation, I gathered that the information, although surely a shock to you, has not irreparably harmed your opinion of my brother. I am concerned, nonetheless, Doctor that such information may still prove hurtful in the long run."

"Sherlock is dead," I said softly, staring into the dark depths of my coffee. "I hardly think we need concern ourselves with the long run."

Holmes nodded and sat up to take a bite of cake.

"I will return the journals to where I found them, but I worry that another may discover them."

"You needn't Doctor, only three people have permission to enter even the sitting room. If they are returned to their proper place, I am sure all will be well."

I sat silent for a moment.

"Does it bother you, Mr. Holmes, to know that your brother was aware of parties responsible for a murder did nothing to bring them to justice?"

"Justice need not always be served by courts, Doctor Watson. Do you not think that Basil Hallward got his justice when Campbell could not live with what he had done? That justice was not served when Dorian Gray faced what he had become and destroyed himself over it? My brother's decision to not reveal the truth did not prevent justice from being served."

I nodded, not sure what else I could say. 

I took myself down to Waterloo Station early and sat on a bench and watched the crowds. I tried to play a guessing game, imagining I was Holmes and deducing what people did with their lives, who they were hurrying to, or from, where they were going and why, but I was just as terrible at it as I had always been. I caught the flush of a child's cheeks and his snotty sleeve and knew he was sick with a fever but would recover. I saw the scars of pox, and the signs of arthritis, but I couldn't see what Holmes could see, what he surely would've seen in Miss Smith's apartment. The telltale clues that would've told him she was fleeing to France and the struggle was staged. He would have noticed clues in the missing clothes and books, not just that they were gone. Perhaps he could have even deduced something in the cracks of the mirrors on the vanity.

My sharp eyes and keen mind made me a good surgeon. After being broken by Afghanistan and put back together again by Holmes, my renewed sense of optimism and belief in the fundamental good of the individual made me a good doctor. But I would never be a good detective - only a good biographer of great detectives. But I needed to be here today, to see this through and perhaps discover why Miss Smith did what she did. Holmes may have been able to deduce a reason from a stray hair, but I would need to ask the young woman myself.

I saw Miss Smith hurrying to her train. She hadn't made an effort to disguise herself, clearly not believing she would encounter anyone she knew. I fell into step beside her and she startled when she saw me, eyes flashing first in fear, then in defiance. I took her elbow to escort her to her train. 

"I have no desire to stop you, Miss Smith, or even reveal to anyone that I have seen you, but I am curious as to why?" Mycroft Holmes had shared his deductions with me, but neither of the Holmes brothers were infallible when it came to matters of the heart.

She stopped and turned to face me. "Doctor Watson, I appreciate what you did for me. And I do not deserve your kindness, but you see-" she stopped and looked over her shoulder at her train. "You see, that is the life I have here, and I don't wish to have it any more."

I nodded and reached into my wallet, removed what notes I had on me and pressed them into her hands. I appreciated the startling simplicity of her motives, and her rather resourceful stubbornness that led to her faking her own death in order to start afresh. It was clear she loved the stage and had no desire to be corrupted from it by the likes of Lord Wotton. Perhaps in France she would not have to have only one or the other.

"I don't know anyone in France, Miss Smith, so I'll offer you what assistance I can here, and of course wish you the best of luck."

She offered me a gorgeous smile and I found myself returning it before tipping my hat and offering her my hand to step onto her train.

"Oh and Miss Smith," I said before relinquishing her hand, "Next time you choose to use pig's blood to fake a wound, splattering it about will disguise both the small quantity and appear far more dramatic."

I winked and turned smartly away, leaving before the train did and made my way back to New Scotland Yard. 

"I suppose you've come to tell me you've solved the case, Doctor Watson?" Lestrade asked with a smile as I sat down at his desk. 

"I have indeed, although not without a bit of assistance."

Lestrade gestured for me to proceed.

"I believe that Miss Smith staged her own disappearance in a scene that was supposed to lead us, you, to believe she had died. But seeing as she doesn't have any family, and was likely entirely responsible for her disappearance herself, I hardly think the CID should waste valuable resources pursuing it."

"You know where she is, don't you?"

"I couldn't say." 

Lestrade snorted, more in amusement than anything else, I hoped. 

"I will see you for dinner then, Tuesday next, Doctor. Please give my regards to your wife." 

I accepted my dismissal and headed back home to my practice. I had sorely neglected it over these past two days and felt relieved to be done with my sleuthing. 

To be on the case, as it were, finally had allowed me to mourn my friend. It saddened me to know that he had kept such secrets, but to realize that that my friendship had meant so much to him, to know he had friends, and yes even lovers, that had cared for him in life comforted me for I was no longer carrying the burden of missing Sherlock Holmes by myself. While I missed the man keenly, what I finally was able to realize was that it was never the detective work I missed, but rather his steady friendship and the excitement, danger, and adventure we had together. My friendship with him had made me the man I am today - a better man for it - and a man capable of loving and being loved by a woman as perfect as Mary.

In my grief for him I had forgotten the others, Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes, and even Mrs. Hudson and I wondered what their friendship with Holmes had meant to each one of them. And if it had taken them so damnably long to figure it out as well. Lestrade had to certainly miss Holmes's intellect and assistance when it came to his more challenging cases, but I couldn't help but now wonder if he had missed his friend as much as I had. His knowledge of at least one of Holmes's secrets now made me believe that their friendship had been deeper and truer than I had ever considered.

The elder Holmes's maintenance of his brother's flat and careful consideration of him even after his death spoke to a deeper affection between the two that I had failed to understand that had been underlying every rude comment Sherlock had ever made about him. Even Mrs. Hudson, for all her exasperation and threats to evict him while he had been alive, clearly missed her tenant deeply in a way that spoke of friendship and not merely the affection of a put upon landlady. 

My step felt lighter as I made my way home. Knowing that Holmes had such true friends and that he wasn't just a consulting detective, but rather a friend and brother, and yes even a lover, to people and that these people had cared for the man as deeply as I had made me feel less alone. I shed the last of my grief as I approached my front stoop and looked forward to the future in store for myself and Mary and my restored friendships with three so very dear people to me.


End file.
